


The King is Dead

by Suffer Bravely (Shamu)



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, More characters ships and tags will be added as this progresses, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), rated M for one booby mention, this will kind of be like a scrapbook of one shots all contained within one AU, though there is an overarching plot, we'll mostly be character centric baybeee, will there be more booby mentions in the future??? probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamu/pseuds/Suffer%20Bravely
Summary: Verdant Rain Moon… Every year that date cycled round again, a day that once marked the end of summer as those sweet, warm days were washed out into autumn’s tide. Now, however, it marked long days of celebration, people giddy with alcohol and disbelief, a whole world still stunned with its own birth.Five years after uniting all of Fódlan, Dimitri abdicates the throne.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

“It has been five years since the war’s end.” 

Verdant Rain Moon… Every year that date cycled round again, a day that once marked the end of summer as those sweet, warm days were washed out into autumn’s tide. Now, however, it marked long days of celebration, people giddy with alcohol and disbelief, a whole world still stunned with its own birth. 

“We, who have cut a path towards our own futures, the futures we have wished for.” 

He spoke to the crowd who had gathered, who gathered here every year in ever greater numbers, who came in their rags and their finery alike to hear him speak. He tried not to study their faces in great detail, casting his gaze instead towards that pale sun on the horizon. Behind him, Ingrid stood alongside Ashe, their company a comfort whenever he felt that words might fail him. 

“We, who have cast away old prejudices, lain down fresh hatred in exchange for the hand of peace.”

Duscur’s flowers would be in full bloom, now - that sun not so pale, no rain at all to speak of on the horizon. Imperial, Alliance, Kingdom - words rapidly losing meaning within the mouths of its people, blue banners waving weakly in the air. El, her face still smiling, her death gaze lingering… yes, hands still extended, reparations instead of revenge, spear still jutting from her stomach that bled in droplets: _liar. liar. liar._

“We, who have shown that the way of the world is best changed not by its rulers, but by its people!” 

His crown sparkled in the muted light, two gryphons interlacing, their heads and tails pressed together. He had never seen his father in this crown, not once. There was no need, after all, for a boy so young to listen to such boring old speeches. 

“Yet.” 

The roar of the crowd rose up to meet him as he glanced downwards. Even this, even now, was… wrong. He had to right to stand over them, no right at all to command them to be whipped into such a frenzy. If anything, he should be down amongst them, speaking to them as a friend would, as an equal. 

Still, he tilted his head back up towards the sky, closing his eye.

“A rope spun from blood binds us all - noble, commoner, Duscur, Fódlan, Imperial, Kingdom - all spilled red that day, all of us ravaged by that war. How many of us died for a cause we did not understand? How many of us still suffer as the screams of it echo on and on? How many did we lose because of the self-righteousness of _one woman?_ ” 

His fingers tightened by his side, his eye rolling back down towards the crowd, his face souring. 

“As time passes, soon, the war will no longer be a vivid memory. Blood dries, my friends. Our wounds heal. Even faces… soon begin to fade. Take comfort in this, take solace, take anger, if you must. Though no matter how you rage against it, soon, that too will be washed away. How will the generations to come speak of this time? Our time?” 

When will El stop looking at him like that? When will that smile blur into that smudged thumbprint that his father’s and Glenn and now Rodrigue’s face were becoming?

“How many generations will it take until one person decides that a new path must once again be forged in blood?” 

He lifted his hands to his head, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“That was all it took to set this war in motion - and to end it, to stop it, what did it take? All of us! Together! United!” 

His hands drifted to the edges of his crown, eagle wings brushing against his fingers. 

“That is why … the time of Tyrants, of Emperors, of _Kings_ has come to an end!” 

He lifted the crown from his head, the ripple of disbelief audible in a complete circle around him. His mouth trembled into a smile, his eye widening. 

“I hereby discharge all of my duties, titles and claims to land and swear allegiance to whatever government follows after me.

Do not despair. We step into this new world, anxious but hopeful. A world in which the people decide our country’s fate, not the decisions of a single title and their counsel.” 

Behind him, he heard something clattering, the shuffling of movement, the creak of the door. Ah. He stammered, lowering his head, but did not turn to face it. 

“I… I, I say this to you, as a man, no longer a King. Hate me for it, if you will. That… after all, is now your right.” 

He lowered the crown to his chest, the weight of it with all its jewels and storied conquests now light within his hands. 

“As my… final act as King, a constitution has been written - one that I hope will serve as guidance for our generation and those to follow. It enshrines the right of all those before me, and beyond, to a voice. Within it, I hope, is the future that we will build together.” 

The noise of the crowd was growing unbearable. He could not tell if it was angry or happy or sad, it was a swelling, braying thing that grew unsettled the longer he stood. 

He supposed, then, that there was little else for him to say.

“The King is dead! Long live the people!”

He held that crown a moment longer, all of its beauty now lost as the magic within it died. Now, it was just an ornament, already history, its blood frozen. 

Placing it on the balcony, he felt his head spinning, the edges of the world darkening as he turned away from the crowd. 

Ashe met his gaze, his face hot and flustered, freckles like angry little suns. 

But Ingrid… Ingrid was gone. 

His breath caught fire in his throat, his eye narrowing, the swell of the crowd still drumming through him.

Stepping forwards, he said nothing as he passed Ashe, a darkness slipping over his face. Yes, he knew he would have upset her… Yet, to… to disappoint Ingrid so much that she would take off from her post? Ah. 

His heart clenched. 

Her armour and her cloak left discarded by the door. 

Yet, the thing that caused the aching in his chest to roar? 

All of it was so neatly arranged. Perfectly so. Folded and unsullied, an exit so dignified that it could only have been Ingrid’s. 

Lowering his head, he carried on through the corridors with determination. It seemed the other guards had not heard, or that the message had not yet sunk in. They bowed to him at every turn, their whispers of ‘Your Majesty’ rising up around him like a baptism. This was… this was once his home, and now, with one slip of the tongue, it no longer was. Those silken titles that they spoke on lifted tongues no longer real, an anarchism, a dead pulse.

He did not speak to correct them, however, their whispers trailing behind him as he slid towards the throne room. Perhaps, someday, they would open these halls to the public. Generations of excess displayed in all of their splendour, shining memories that, perhaps then, he would be permitted to revisit. Yes. For the past few months, weeks, days, he had tried desperately to absorb the colours of these corridors, the shapes within them, the rich and ancient smell that hung all around them, the places where voice echoed. 

Soon, all this too would begin to fade. 

Would she, too, never return to this place?

Ingrid… 

He swallowed, shaking away the feeling that gargled up from the pit of his stomach. If only he could see her. If only he could explain…

Explain… Explain what? That he had thrown away the one symbol she had worked tirelessly to serve? That which she had abandoned her family’s hopes for? No, he was selfish to think that he could explain. More selfish still to assume that she would care to listen.

The throne was empty. 

Just another symbol, cast away. A chair. He had remembered dreaming of sitting on it when he was a boy. Wondering how a body could ever grow so big as to need that much room. Now? He knew how uncomfortable it was, the tedium of the function it bore, the aching in his back and the thinning of his leg muscles. He would be glad to be rid of it, in truth. 

Still. 

Areadbhar pulsed quietly from the throne’s side, its curled tip like fingers arched in a wave, an unholy familiarity ebbing from it. That thing… it never needed cleaned, not really. It had soaked in El’s blood like a sponge, drank in it, swallowed its fill. 

That kind of darkness… that kind of light… it no longer belonged here. 

Yet did it truly belong with him, either? 

Reaching for it, his fingers twitched along its handle, Rodrigue’s softening smile just behind his ear. 

“Duke Fraldarius!” 

He whipped round, Areadbhar in hand as he watched a whip of black shove the guard to the ground, that whip turning into a whirl as it barrelled towards him, a roar trembling in the air. 

Teeth snapped into view just as his fist smashed into his cheekbone, the world lit up in a dizzying glow of pain. Still. He did not move to thrust Areadbhar forward, nor did he turn to face away. He absorbed it, the sensation already numbing as he gazed sadly towards his friend. 

Felix. 

I’m sorry. 

The man huffed on the spot, breathing erratic. He would be embarrassed about that later, he knew. Too great a display of emotion. Still, he was… happy, in a way, that he was expressing his righteous anger. Better than letting it sink deep and fester. 

“You’re running away?! That’s your answer?” 

Felix’s breathing was slowing, his brown eyes touching red. 

“I am not running, Felix,” Dimitri stated, hands stiffly held by his side. “Though… I understand your anger -“ 

“No you don’t.” 

Felix’s face contorted, his nostrils sharpening. 

“You can’t possibly understand. People die for you. A whole country on its knees for you. I don’t even need to say it, do I? My brother, my father - even I, I stood by you until the bitter end, no matter how much I hated you.”

Dimitri watched as Felix ranted, kept trying to catch his gaze as the man before him squirmed in his own skin. 

“Felix, I … I should have told you. Out of everyone, you had a right to kn-” 

“Don’t give me that crap.” 

His eyes narrowed and flickered, his tongue running sharply over his lip. “Seeing you transform into that wretched, disgusting beast… To know that all that I had been saying for all those years had been right… To see my father, die in that barren field all because you decided you were ready to give up and die right then and there…

Do you know why we kept supporting you, boar? Why we didn’t simply cut you down like all the other rabid cur?”

Dimitri knew, he knew it very well. 

_Because of your family’s duty?_

_Because we were friends?_

“Because of my crown.” 

“Exactly.” 

Felix gazed up at him, his breath steadying. 

“That crown you wore like a collar.” 

Grabbing the sword at his hilt, he drew it and slit it through the air - resting it on the edge of Dimitri’s neck. 

“Without it, you’re exposed. Just another wild pig. If I cut you down, would they even take my head?” 

“Hunting season does not begin for another moon,” Dimitri stated, refusing to look at the blade. 

“You think this is funny?!” 

“Felix,” he whispered, brow arching. “It was you who told me… to abandon my throne, to become a grave keeper, if I must. You who told me that I must no longer act in service of the dead?”

Felix’s eyes widened, his mouth tightening as that blade still wavered just above skin. 

“So you admit that you’re weak? That this has nothing to do with being ‘for the people’ or whatever that was?” 

Dimitri shook his head. 

“I did not say that. What I said is the truth. Think how much your family has suffered all because of my title. It is exactly as you said… I should have been killed. Just like Fleche. She and I were hardly any different. No. The atrocities I committed… far outpaced her own. Yet it is I who stands before you and speaks of the good of the country and the hope for redemption.

And if you do not believe that, if you truly think that the crown as an institution is the best way to serve the people of Fódlan… Then see me as selfish, Felix.” 

The blade at his neck began to shudder, the lines around those eyes beginning to soften. If he had wanted, this was his opening, the moment of weakness that could so easily have cost this man his life. Five years ago… he did not have to wonder if he truly would have done it. Five years ago, if it had been his blade at his throat, it would not have wavered. 

Felix, you are too good a man.

“I am returning to Garreg Mach. I will be living there in service to the Archbishop… and, to repent. No crown should ever have rested on my horned head, you would say as much. To give myself to the church… it will never be enough to amend the sins I have wrought, but it will see to it that no more are committed by my hand.” 

“Bastard,” Felix hissed, dropping his sword to his side, his gaze still filling with venom. “You lying bastard. You’re going there because the Archbishop is your wife. What? Are her monthly visits not fulfilling enough? You’re disgusting.”

“… I cannot deny that… living in the monastery will… improve our relationship,” he stated, his cheeks flaring. 

“I expected this from Sylvain, but you?”

“You can… come visit me, if you’d like,” he said, and it was then that he tore himself from Felix’s gaze, eye wandering towards the floor. “You must miss it, sometimes, do you not?” 

The silence told him everything he needed to know. 

“Duke Fraldarius.” 

The light would soon begin to fade, the day running short. 

“I hereby relieve you of your duties towards me and my House.” 

Felix’s laughter stung in his ear, the zip of his sword slipping back into its sheath still echoing in his mind as he recalled one final duty he had left to do. 

Standing before his childhood quarters - the very same that had remained sealed since the days of the tragedy - he inhaled deeply. 

Yes.

Now was the time to let it go. 

He had no right to it, anymore, after all. 

Stepping forwards, he slipped into the dark.   
  


* * *

  
He took a black horse from the stables, a Clydesdale with a mane that waved in the wind. She had already made the ride to Garreg Mach many times before, and for all she lacked in speed he knew that she had the stamina to make it by nightfall. 

There was nothing left waiting for him, here. 

Goodbye to this city entombed in eternal frost, with your magic and your still proud people. 

Goodbye to these barren fields, with your memories of boys wrestling in the mud and wooden swords lifted to the air. 

Goodbye to the woods where a father taught a son to hunt, to the river where a young girl confessed she could not swim, to the countless castles with those endless corridors and full of rules and mannerisms they would never need again. Goodbye to Faeghus, beautiful and harsh, wild and alive in defiance of the coming winter. 

He rode until the sun turned gold below the horizon, until he could see those rosey fingers wrap their way around that gentle mountain at the centre of the world. Lifting himself out of his saddle, he demanded a gallop as fast as the heartbeat rising in his chest.

Felix, Ingrid… 

Their anger, his guilt, their despair slipped from his shoulders as those stone steps rose up to meet him. His horse struggled, slowed, the shake of her head and the thud of her hooves thundering against the gravel. Nevertheless, he pushed her onwards, steam rising from her great muscles as the exertion took its toll. 

As the top of the mountain came into view, he whistled to the guards to open the gate. They knew him well enough, and did not know that now they had every right to refuse him, to check him over for weapons and intentions like any other visitor in the dead of night. Still, why not take advantage of their ignorance a while longer? 

Up through the gate, past the market place, into the grand hall. He could hear the guards shouting behind him, the whinny of his horse as she struggled yet again on surfaces unusual to her and these endless sets of stairs. Yet, still, onwards he pushed her. Flying past the knights in the grand reception hall, across the bridge where those evergreen trees still swayed silently, up and up towards the Cathedral where. 

Standing there, her back to him. 

Waiting for him, turning to see. 

Her smile already there, growing. 

His beloved.

“Byleth!” 

Momentum still channelled through both their bodies, Dimitri rode in a circle around her, coiling towards her centre until, finally, he pulled himself free from his horse’s back and landed on marble. 

Her wide gaze, eyes whose curves could lighten so brightly and so suddenly with emotion - now on him, an easy smile turning into a laugh as she glanced to watch his horse continue in circles around them. 

“Dimitri… what happened to you?” 

She reached to his face, lightly touching darkening skin.

Those hands, cutting through the black, softer and then softer still. He leaned his face into them, eye shutting as the world hummed back into existence. 

“I’ve done it.” 

Her gasp was barely audible, though her hands did not tremble.

“How many times must you watch me bury myself, Byleth?” 

He slid his eye open again, meeting her bruised gaze.

A smile graced his features. 

“No more,” he whispered, “I promise.” 

Her fingers darted to his hands, still warm despite his layer of armour, the feel of her ring grazing his thumb. 

“I’m here, I’m here as just a man, now, I’m here for the rest of my days.”

Thank you, she whispered as her mouth met his, again and then again. 

“Not a student.” 

Thank you. 

“Not a beast.” 

Thank you. 

“Not a monarch.” 

Thank you. 

“Just _yours._ ” 

You’re home.

A black horse drawing out its own circle, a Kingdom that no longer needed its king, a Goddess and a man finding each other beneath this cathedral’s holy circlet. 

“We’re home.”


	2. Chapter 2

He is made only of bones that break, of skin that opens, of flesh that turns to rot that turns to nothing in time - in many ways, you could say that the only tangible thing they are made of is time. Of moving forwards. Of heading, restlessly, towards what is and then what is not. So when he holds you he is holding onto time that slips endlessly through his fingers. When he holds you, he is holding onto a future that ends as abruptly as its past, fingers tracing your stomach which was once held within a mother and that will someday hold a mother. 

You know that, without even waving a hand, you can undo all of this. Peel back the threads of his wailing, those nightmares undone, his hands that thrash at things that even you cannot see. You can go even further, if you’d like. Before he sets the crown aside, before he is ever crowned at all, before this war erupted (like it erupts now, an unsettled ocean, waves that roar in your husband’s mouth even as he turns to kiss you, once just a little too softly, once just a little too violently). You could go all the way to the beginning, to when you began to be born (to feel, to live), to when you first laid eyes on their three bright and shining faces before you chose, you made the choice, to follow this man into the dark. 

He holds you like he will never lose you, like he is going to lose you, the clock face shattering. Your breast soft in his mouth, his hands firm on your back. You watch him curiously, hard at work, deep in concentration, unsure if he will break you - unsure if he will save you. You wonder if he even feels sensation at all unless it is mirrored in you, taste dead on his tongue, gloved hands entombed; embalmed. 

You wonder if the same is true of you, if you have only learned to gasp and tug at his hair and hiss sweet nonsense because this is what he has taught you to feel.

You are like two mirrors pointed at one another, reflecting infinity. 

You could choose to make this not so. To run back to that time, where, on that field - you run alongside Claude, the wind kissing your shoulders as you ram blade after blade into Dimitri’s flesh, his teeth hurling insults between bloodied gasps, his threats to kill you real (and fulfilled, had time not saved you, cradled you, over and over.)

Yet here he is, now looking up at you, a single streak of blue. You see the corners of his lips, the underside of his eye, the wholeness of his face curl upwards in a way that you understand now to be a smile.

“You’ve been practicing.” 

He laughs. 

“I’ve been learning,” he corrects, because there is nothing he can claim possession to, anymore, that is not moulded by your hand. 

This is what you choose. 

You wonder, is that Sothis laughing? 

* * *

Ingrid’s the most beautiful woman in the world when she’s angry about something, kicking up a storm, ranting and raving without even breaking a sweat, not even a hair out of place. 

He knows, he knows. That’s just terrible to say, isn’t it? 

Still doesn’t stop it being true. 

Thing is… today, it’s serious. There’s a difference in her that Sylvain can spot immediately, the way her eyes have totally lost their usual sparkle, the stiffness in her gait that’s now set on automatic, the way she doesn’t say ‘hi’ or whatever when she walks through the door, doesn’t even take her boots off, doesn’t even - you know - stop to explain what the heck is happening and just starts running up the stairs. 

“Ingrid?!”

He follows after her, of course - like he probably should have done earlier today. But there was an important meeting, Sreng council, old wrinkly dudes swapping stories and nodding gruffly that he needed to nod along with. Besides, he was missing out on a celebration they did every year. Yeah, he loved seeing Dimitri make his speeches - buuut, he figured there wasn’t going to be anything all too different in a speech for an event he’d attended four times already. 

Yep. Dead wrong. Of course.   
Sighing, he found Ingrid in their room, stuffing her clothes into a chest.

Ah. Shit.

Maybe this was nothing to do with Dimitri’s speech, then. 

Keeping it cool, he clasped his hands behind his head, listening to her harried breathing for a while. Man. She was really shook up. 

“You walking out on me or something?”

She turned and glanced up at him, eyes like these ripply green pools that just might spill over if she was shoogled enough. Crap. This was really bad. 

Ingrid shook her head.

“I apologize, Sylvain.”

She turned her face away from him, staring at the half-filled chest. Spreading her hands out, she started slapping them on her thighs, a tremble running up her leg. Yeah, ok. Not mad at _him_ then. 

Deciding things were safe enough for him to enter her personal space, he slipped in behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. 

“Look, I know you don’t like relying on me.” 

He pressed his fingers right where he knew she liked it, the lines of her muscles she always asked him to follow post work-out.

“But, come on. What’s going on?” 

He could feel her relax slightly into his palms, and he smiled softly to himself. Alright. Good. He could actually play the role of good husband for once, he supposed.

“Dimitri… He abdicated.” 

UH. 

“… What now?” 

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means?” She scowled over her shoulder, but quickly reigned it in, her face shifting into something less angry, more sad. “It means…”

“You’re not a knight anymore.” 

She stiffened up again, her heart crimping in her mouth as she near-whispered ‘Yes’.

“Ingrid… wow. I, I had no idea.” 

Stepping away from his touch, he held his hands uselessly by his side as she straightened up, saying nothing for awhile. 

So, none of this really felt… real. Not really. Not yet. He wanted to ask her a billion questions - why’d he do it, how do you know, who else knows, does Felix… - but all of that stopped dead right then and there on his tongue. You know what? He could hazard a guess as to why he did it. The responsibility on his shoulders was already making his body crack. How heavy can a crown be? Still. Even though Ingrid was this angry… he couldn’t imagine Dimitri doing this lightly. He had to have an endgame. A plan. Something that made this worthwhile for everybody, right?

Still. He could of told them. He could of told her.   
  
Seeing her like this… 

“You can still be a knight, you know. For the next king.” 

“No, Sylvain…” She sighed. “He wasn’t just that he abdicated. He dissolved the monarchy. Forever. The imperial line ends with him living out the rest of his days in penance at Garreg Mach. It’s already over.” 

He tightened his hand into a fist, swallowing down hot anger that was beginning to bubble at its surface. He wondered - was all this rage really for Dimitri, or on behalf of her sake? Or was it just another way of saying he was angry at himself for thinking ‘damn, I wish I could get a piece of that pie’? 

“Then… I guess, there’s still nobility, right? Be a knight for some other House.” 

She turned then, to look at him. Her eyes were still just a little bit wet, but maybe not quite as watery, like she’d need a bit more shoogling to really let loose. Maybe he was helping, then, as helpless as he felt. 

“I can’t…” She cast her eyes downward for a second, tilting her head. Yeah. He already knew what she was going to say before she even had to. 

“There’s no one like Dimitri, huh?” 

“No, it’s not just that…” She looked back to him, the edges of her eyes hardening. There she was. “It’s trust. To be a knight, you have to be willing to die on command, die for a cause that is not your own to decide. So if a King can wash himself clean of any responsibility, do it without so much as a word to any of us… to his friends that he has had since childhood, the same friends who guided him back to that throne.” 

“Then… who can you trust, right?” 

“Exactly.” 

He grabbed the back of his head again, sighing as he clasped his elbows in front of his face. Shit. Yeah. This was bad. Heartbreaking stuff, actually. 

Should have been, anyway. 

“So, what are you going to do. You must be packing up for a reason.” 

“I’m going back to Galatea County. My father… he has been struggling, as of late, to maintain the land,” and it was right then and there, just like that, that she kept on packing. 

No questions about how he was feeling about the whole thing. Or, like, hey - I’m thinking of moving more than a day’s ride away without even, you know, consulting my husband. Pot, kettle? 

“What, isn’t he happy with House Gautier’s monthly stipend? C’mon Ingrid. You don’t have to move back in with him, do you? It’s not that I don’t love your dad, but…” 

“It won’t be permanent,” she said, grabbing something off the shelf and squirrelling it away in her pocket. 

“Somehow, I don’t know if I believe that. You’re stubborn, Ingrid. Never don’t see something to it’s end. And Galatea? That land needs a whole lot of work. A whole lot of lifetime’s work. It’s just not meant to grow, no matter what you put into it.”

Ah. 

Fuck. 

That almost sounded bitter, didn’t it? 

He narrowed his eyes, let his hands drift to his side. 

“… Look, I’ll come with you.” 

She perked up at that, mouth so stunned he was just a little bit hurt. 

“You will? But…” 

“Yeah, yeah. Well. Sreng’s been less of an issue, lately. Peace efforts going well. Don’t think I’m needed around here all the time, anymore - and when I am, it’s not like I’m a whole world away, am I?” 

She straighten up, a slight blush on her face, the first smile he’d seen all day. Aw, yeah. He’d somehow prodded out the right words, even though he was doing that thing she hated - putting emotion before duty, blah blah.

“Thank you, Sylvain.”

He supposed, in a way, he was still putting duty before emotion, wasn’t he? 

Playing absent mindedly with the ring on his finger, he found his face folding into a smile. 

“Yeah, no problem.” 

* * *

“Did you hear what he said to me? That bastard, that degenerate pig.” 

“Felix! Hello to you too, you want some tea? Think I still got some of your favourite — Woah!” 

Backstepping and narrowly avoiding a swat from his most considerate of friends, Sylvain found himself pressed against the wall as Felix advanced on him, all teeth. 

“You think now is the time for sitting around and drinking tea? That’s exactly what got us into this mess.” 

“Hey, Felix… can you at least, I don’t know. Knock next time? How did you even get in?” 

“Unlocked,” he stated, flatly.

“Yep. And the guard just let you by, too?” 

“He recognised me.” 

“Yeah. Of course. Typical. Invite in the guy brandishing his sword like a kid showing off his new drawing, it’s cool. I know him after all.” 

Felix grabbed Sylvain by the shoulder then, tightening his grip as his eyes narrowed into those sharp little points, almost losing themselves in those lashes. 

“He told me that living in the monastery would ‘improve his relationship’. Can you believe it?”

“Felix, look. I haven’t even talked to him yet, I barely even know what’s going on.” 

The hand on his shoulder loosened its grip, just a little. 

“Well, you’ve heard it now. The truth at the heart of it all. ’For the people’, hmph.” 

His face was turning red, his tongue sharp along the edges of his lip, his mouth tightening this way and that. 

What was it and his friends all looking so beautiful when they were angry?

“I told him, you know,” Felix’s eyes were rounding out again, softening in a way that could only mean that - yep, yeah. He was going to take a nice, cheap dig at him. “I could have expected this from you.” 

“Right, thanks Felix. That makes me feel good, I’m glad I was at least brought up,” he sighed, grabbing that hand on his shoulder maybe just a touch more softly than it deserved. “Seems like I missed all the fun and games.”

“Tch, you would call this ‘fun’.” 

“Whatever, look. You can’t honestly believe Dimitri did all this just to chase skirt. Divine skirt or not, and an absolute idiot when it comes to love, it’s … I don’t know. That’s too much, too weird. Are you sure he didn’t say something like ‘I never deserved the crown anyway, I’m a monster’ or whatever?” 

“Even if he did, it’s all a lie. He’ll be happily rolling around in his own slop right about now.” 

“How does your mind come up with these images, Felix?” He reached out and tapped the man lightly on the forehead, brushing his stupid fringe back into place. “Like, do you actually picture him on all four legs, with a little curly tail?” 

“Shut up.” 

Then, clattering down the stairs and provoking Felix to withdraw his hand back to his side, Ingrid reappeared. 

“All packed?”

“Almost. Felix. I see you’ve come to vent your frustrations about this situation, too?” 

Folding her arms, she stepped between them both, her mouth a narrow line. 

Sylvain laughed, crossing his arms a little more loosely. “Felix thinks Dimitri’s rolling around in a barn right now, or something.” 

“Laugh all you like. It’s what he told me himself.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes, sighing. 

“I see. You spoke to him, then.” 

“I had to give him a piece of my mind,” Felix glanced then at his own hand as it tightened into a fist. “Imagine. Glenn dying ‘like a true knight’ for that swine. Could easily have been you. Me.” 

“I am disappointed in his actions, too. Truth be told, I did not handle it as gracefully as I would have liked. Perhaps I should have said something. Gave my resignation in person.” 

“There’s nothing to resign from, he made you redundant,” he snapped, turning his back to both of them. “That’s not all. You heard about his little ‘constitution’ didn’t you?” 

“Uhh, no. But I’m guessing you’re about to fill us in?” Sylvain leaned back against the wall, eyes dulling. Damn. He really, really hated being caught in the middle of all this. As much as he loved a good roasting, to do it to Dimitri… felt wrong, felt really wrong, even if the guy deserved it. 

“Obviously.”

Felix took a sharp breath then, made this hot little sigh that he only does when he’s really worked up over something. Damn it. Sylvain shouldn’t be thinking about this, but he does, fiddling with his ring as he watches the man spit venom.

“He claimed that he was leaving the crown for a better system, one ruled by the people, not kings. Said he had it all laid out in a binding constitution, his last act as monarch. Well, what a joke. We’re supposed to all vote for a ‘prime minister’, someone who suggests laws for us to vote on. Someone only the nobility can elect.” 

Ingrid gasped - and, trust, she hardly gasps for anything - her hand zipping up to cover that opened mouth. 

“Only the nobility?” 

“Sounds not too different from what was going on in the Empire, does it?” Sylvain hummed, brows narrowing. “I just don’t get it. This is all so weird.” 

“Perhaps he thought this would be the more gradual choice…” Ingrid lifted a hand under her chin, eyes narrowing. 

“He wasn’t thinking at all,” Felix hissed. “Too busy considering all the vile things he’s going to -” 

“Okay, you know what,” Sylvain shook his head. “This is too much for me to unpack right now. I’m angry but… I don’t know, I feel like I barely even know the guy anymore, things just aren’t adding up. It’s not like he doesn’t see the Archbishop all the time, she’s usually knocking about every month, right? Not saying a guy can get his fill from that, but …” 

Both Ingrid and Felix had their glare-y faces on, real scary. 

“I don’t know. I think I should go talk to him.” 

Felix shrugged - heading towards the door. 

“Do what you want. It’s your time to waste.” 

Ingrid, however, was a little bit more thoughtful in her response. 

“I am weighing up whether I should accompany you. I…” 

“Nah, Ingrid. Don’t. Give him the silent treatment a while - let him simmer in it. You can always find the words later on.”

She seemed heartened by this, nodding in a way that he knew really meant ‘thanks.’ 

“I should finish, then. Felix… it was good to see you.” 

“Yeah,” Felix waved a hand, dismissively, disappearing out the door. 

Damn. 

This was… this was all shades of fucked up. 

Finally alone, Sylvain planted his face in his fingers, groaning. 

* * *

A dark shadow touches light for the first time in so… so long. 

He had forgotten what it felt like, to move these limbs again. To even acknowledge that they were attached to a body. After all, he had spent five years trying to tear them free from their sockets. Yet… now that he was faced with the dizzying, sickening choice of freedom?

He found his first act was in laughter.

A sky so hungry it might just devour them all.

He laughed; a slow, dark, brightening, frightening, growing laugh that filled his whole body as though to command itself back into existence. 

Laughing at an absurd world that had lost its spark, would go mad without it, would drown itself in its thrashing. 

With just a single step, he disappeared into black, laughter cutting short with it. 


End file.
